The Vega Brothers
by GeorgiaMaeSixx
Summary: Vic has a favour to ask, and he goes to the only person he knows with the connections able to fulfil it. Vincent. Vic Vega embarks on a journey of revenge after surviving Mr. Orange's last statement and takes his brother along for the ride. (Rated M for strong language, violence and sexual situations)
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Vic Vega and Vincent Vega and many other familiar faces in this fanfiction. They belong to Quentin Tarantino. I do not get any money from this fic but I do enjoy hearing reviews and constructive criticisms! Read and leave me a review. Rated M for violence, strong language, gore and sexual situations.

* * *

**Vic**

Everything flashed before Vic's eyes: the heist, the unthinkable blood, the gunshots...the ear. It was all there. But the man who had been torturing a cop only minutes beforehand was now out for the count, thanks to Mr. Orange. _Fucking Orange, now they'll never know he's the rat. He shot his colleagues to save a boy in blue, and that doesn't go down well with me.._ Vic thought to himself, unable to move or talk from the three crippling gunshot wounds in his chest. Though he knew that whoever Orange was, he had a mighty fine tactic in staying still. Blonde had almost forgot that the fucker was still alive. After all, a man unconscious in a pool of his own blood is not likely to get up and dance to Stealers Wheel as Vic had just done.

Clowns to the left of me,  
Jokers to the right, here I am,  
Stuck in the middle with you...

Mr Blonde could only chuckle in his own thoughts at the irony of the song lyrics and his current situation. He was bleeding out between a man who had begged for his life and cried like a faggot, and the man who had lied straight to their faces and assumed that he would get away scot free. The bleeding hole in Orange's stomach was a reminder though of what happens to those who fuck with a Vega. Even if he hadn't delivered the bullet himself, he wished he did.

"I'm a cop..." Orange said through gritted teeth, looking up at the disfigured cop tied to the chair. Mr Blonde scrunched up his eyes, taking his mind off of the pain and onto the situation behind him, but he would be subtle. No looking over, no acting on it, but play dead. It was his rock bottom plan. He wanted to slaughter that son of a bitch, that rat, that fucking cop, but he would wait. The anger radiated from him as Orange and Nash discussed if they had met, exchanging real names. _Freddy Fuckin' Newendyke._

The next hour was painful for Mr Blonde, who through it all still did not empathise with Orange or Nash, who were also in pain. In Vega's eyes, they deserved whatever came to them. He knew that when Joe and Nice Guy Eddie showed up, they'd get it. They'd get old school justice.

He didn't look up in relief as Joe and Eddie stormed in, followed by White. Eddie flew into a blind rage at the sight of Blonde on the floor, a trusted employee who had even done time for them, and shot the earless cop multiple times, unloading the barrel into the man who had only just escaped death at the clutches of Vic. He started yelling at the top of his voice, and wanted to shoot Orange right then and there, Joe having shared his suspicion of Orange being the rat with his son in the car. White was already cradling the cop in his arms, blood soaking his crisp white shirt. They were all bloody now, Vic noticed, thinking it was ironic that they all blamed him for the violence, yet they had all committed some themselves, or bore witness to it. Nobody here was innocent. Not White, not Freddy, not Nash.

White was yelling in Joe's face when Vic regained consciousness, a gun pointed at Joe, only to have Eddie's pointed in his face as well. a true Mexican standoff. If only they knew that it was all over the fate of a cop. Mr Blonde waited anxiously, his eyes still firmly shut when the gunshots rang throughout the room. He assumed that Joe and Eddie had been shot and a brief sharp pang of guilt ran through his body. Well, he couldn't tell whether it was guilt or just the /fucking bullet wounds/. But he had lost two close friends and accomplices in that instant, all for nothing. He heard White groaning. _He's been shot too? Fucking deserves it. Saving that piece of shit. _

White began to cry as he cradling the dying Orange in his arms, the both of them now bloody, and it not just belonging to Orange. He stroked Orange's hair away from his face and cried, him also feeling the loss of Joe and Eddie. The only other one, apart from Vic, who would ever understand what it felt like to lose them. He dropped his gun and sighed, leaning back as his own bullet wound began to trickle red. The violence appeared to be over, but the dense tension still hung in the air, and refused to move. "I'm a cop, Larry."

The sounds of Mr Pink came from outside. The sounds of sirens. The sounds of guns, and police. It was at this point that Vic thanked the gods that he was the only one smart enough to wear a vest under his shirt. Sure, it didn't stop the bullets, but decreased their fatality. The cops had then stormed the warehouse, gun barrels staring directly at Larry on the floor. He was crying, with his own gun now pressed up against Orange's cheek. Vega smirked ever so slightly as White pulled the trigger, but then stopped as the police unloaded into him.

This was his chance to escape.

The police had checked the room and taken all of the guns, briefing each other and the surplus arrivals outside of the warehouse. Vic's eyes flicked up towards the back exit of the warehouse as he struggled up to a standing position. The pain rushed through him like the thrill he had gotten with the straight razor. As he stumbled across the warehouse, with both time and his own body against him, he stopped to pick up the bloody razor from the floor, gently wiping the blood away on the sleeve of his shirt, before tucking it back into his boot. He also picked up Nash's severed and blood encrusted ear as a grisly souvenir, a 'Don't fuck with me or expect the same' token, and safely deposited it in his pocket.

The exit was now in sight, and Vic shoved the door open with his good side, groaning at the pain that ached in all of his muscles. He blinked at the beaming sun, having only felt darkness for the whole ordeal, and staggered outside towards what he considered freedom. Only this was just the beginning. he'd need somewhere to stay, someone who wouldn't tell the police and also had a dab hand at tending to gun wounds, or had connections. Spotting the payphone just across the street, Vic rushed over to it, arm covering the wounds to make him seem just a little more normal.

He called the only number he knew off by heart, something he'd had to learn in prison. It rang, and rang, and rang, but eventually the person on the other end picked up. Vic winced at the sound of his voice, memories flooding back to him. He'd never been one to rely on anyone, but now was a moment of weakness. He'd get this sorted and then get back to revenge. "Vincent? I need your help. Quick."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Vic Vega and Vincent Vega and many other familiar faces in this fanfiction. They belong to Quentin Tarantino. I do not get any money from this fic but I do enjoy hearing reviews and constructive criticisms! Read and leave me a review. Rated M for violence, strong language, gore and sexual situations.

* * *

**Vincent**

Vincent Vega had officially been part of the morning from hell. It was worse than Amsterdam, and in Vincent's opinion, that was the worst fucking thing that had happened to him in his life. He was stood in Dimmick's kitchen, being laughed at by Jimmy, covered in brain matter and skull fragments and a shitload of blood. It wasn't his fault! He was just asking Marvin something, but then Jules had decided to hit a speed bump at full speed, and Vincent accidentally shot him. Of course, Jules had given Vincent a lot of shit over the event, as Marvin's head had exploded like a blood filled water balloon. Plus, their car was now the site of a massacre and the closest place to them was Jimmy Dimmick's house.

You could cut the tension in the kitchen with a teaspoon, and Jimmy looked at the bloody hit men in disgust, wrapped up in the dressing gown he had managed to pull on as the bloody car with the grim present had pulled up onto his drive. Jules had tried to break the obvious tension by complimenting Jimmy's coffee, but the younger man just ranted on about how he knew how good his coffee was because he was the one who buys it. _He has no reason to be pissed, _Vincent huffed to himself wiping a blood splatter from his cheek._  
_

Of course, Vincent knew that with his family's luck, the morning was only headed on a steep, downhill decline.

The Wolf had arrived, much to the dismay of Jules, and had a clearly set out plan as to what he wanted by the two guys who had royally fucked up a simple job. Vincent just should have kept his mouth shut, but he was already about to blow from the argument with Jules, and had managed to sarcastically reply to The Wolf's orders. "A please would be nice." he'd simply stated. He didn't mean for it to be the catalyst for a beat down, but Vincent never really thought ahead. "I don't mean any disrespect, I just don't like people barking orders at me."

"If I'm curt with you it's because time is a factor. I think fast, I talk fast and I need you guys to act fast if you wanna get out of this. So, pretty please... with sugar on top. Clean the fucking car." The Wolf had replied, walking back out from the garage and trying to erase the grisly gore from his retinas, feeling as though the image had been burned in.

Vincent was no stranger to dirty work, after all, he worked for one of the most psychotic men around. But scrubbing the remains of Marvin from the windows and feeling the gunk run through his fingers repulsed him. Why him? Why not his fucking dead beat brother that he hadn't heard from since Amsterdam? He had The Big Bad Fuckin' Wolf barking at him in one ear and Jules ripping him apart in the other. He'd been through too much shit today to go through all of it, so he angrily scrubbed at the upholstery and tried to forget about the briefcase that caused all of this. "Oh, man, I will never forgive your ass for this shit. This is some fucked-up repugnant shit." Jules growled at his partner. Vincent had to grit his teeth just to not punch him right there.

"Jules, did you ever hear the philosophy that once a man admits that he's wrong that he is immediately forgiven for all wrong doings? Have you ever heard that?" he replied, trying to stay calm in the face of angry adversity.

"Get the fuck out my face with that shit! The motherfucker that said that shit never had to pick up itty-bitty pieces of skull on account of your dumb ass." Jules quickly answered Vincent's, in his view, dumbass question.

"I got a threshold, Jules. I got a threshold for the abuse that I will take. Now, right now, I'm a fuckin' race car, right, and you got me the red. And I'm just sayin', I'm just sayin' that it's fuckin' dangerous to have a race car in the fuckin' red. That's all. I could blow." Vincent snapped, his mind racing.

After they had managed to make the car look like less of a crime scene, also thanks to Jimmy's blankets, the two bloody men stood for a hose down in the garden. "This will remind you of county, gentlemen!" The Wolf chuckled, hosing down the naked Vincent and Jules as they desperately tried to wash the blood from them. It wasn't just the amount of blood though, for Vincent it was a reminder that he was fucked up and couldn't even get through a job without doing something to mess it up. First the overdosing business, and now this. He'd be surprised if he ended up with a career left after all of this.

"Look, I'll look after the dead guy in the garage, and just in time! Bonnie will be home and Jimmy won't have to get a divorce! Halle-fucking-lujah!" The Wolf chuckled, spinning his car keys. "Now, Jules, take the briefcase with you and go and get some breakfast or something lay low for a while. I'll talk to Marselllus before he implants a shell into both of your skulls."

Begrudgingly, Jules dragged his now colourful partner to the car and began to drive to a nearby diner. Although Vincent and Jules had had their many disagreements, over some pretty serious shit, he was distraught to find out that Jules was going to retire from the life of crime that he had said was way to stressful and faith-threatening for a holy man. Vincent would once again be alone, just like Amsterdam.

The diner was now the site of the end of not only a friendship, but the end of a (more often than not) successful partnership. Vincent messed with the pages of his copy of Modesty Blaise, contemplating his now obscure future, and frowned as something began to vibrate in his pocket. _Must be Marsellus_, Vincent huffed, and put his hand up to Jules, saying he should probably take it.

Vincent took the massive but high tech for the time, portable phone from his pocket and walked out into the beaming morning sun, knees on show. He hated this outfit, much preferring the anonymity of a black suit and bolo tie. The phone now up to his ear, he took a long sigh and pressed the talk button, just awaiting the shit he was going to get. Was it even worth answering the phone in the first place?

Of course, Vincent would've never expected the voice on the other end that was exasperated and desperate. Hell, Vincent thought he was now living in a bad dream, one he had been trying to escape for years. Vic Vega, his older brother. "What the fuck do you want? Because at the moment, you're the fucking cherry on top of a bad morning."

"Look, Vincent I need your help. I'm by that abandoned warehouse down on fourth, and I've been shot. I'd really appreciate some medical attention and a soda."

"For fuck's sake..." Vincent sighed, holding the bridge of his nose. "I'll be there in a minute, just let me get the keys from Jules."

Vincent walked back into the diner as if he had just seen a ghost. He was still shaking over what he had done to Marvin, not over the act, but of the violence that had followed. Jules just shoved the keys into Vincent's hand. He was staking out a suspicious looking couple near the window, holding his gun ready under the table. "Just go." he had whispered to his partner. "Now."

_I don't want to be this fucking hero! _Vincent internally yelled, screaming within the confined spaces of his blood stained conscience. Vic didn't deserve shit from him. He didn't deserve Vincent's help. But yet, family honour had found Vincent outside of the said warehouse, anxious because of the amount of police around. "Where the fuck is he..."

The door slammed shut in the back and Vincent was now accompanied by heavy breathing and a low chuckle. "Did you get my soda?"


End file.
